Dying Breath

by Heather Graham

  “Not when we’ve got a big one all boxed up!” Under said, and laughed.

  Taker started moving down the street. Under followed in his footsteps.

  “Think we’ll get to see what happens with that one? I got to admit, I’m hoping your clue doesn’t work. That’s one I’d love to see go bad.”

  “Yeah,” Taker agreed. “But hey, not the prize we’re really looking for, right?”

  “But a thread to the prize,” Under said, and paused in the street, smiling as they watched the growing throng of reporters in the area. “Love this, love it, love it...and best of all...”

  “Best of all, what?” Taker asked.

  Under grinned. “We’ve got the dough to keeping going and going.” Under paused, frowning. “Hey, what happens when we’ve taken down the prize, huh? I mean, this is cool, really cool. But I mean, you have an objective. And that’s okay. But...”

  “You change. You change your direction. Your style, your signature. And start all over again. You become someone else.”

  “So, this never has to end?”

  “No, it never has to end,” Taker said.

  It would end, of course. He did have an objective. And as to his good friend Under...

  Well, friendships often—and tragically—came to an end.

  But for now...

  His eye was on the prize. And as for Under...at the moment, Under was loyal, like a lapdog, and had assets and abilities Taker did not. Under could, upon occasion, behave in a superior manner, but...

  Really. It was all just a matter of time.

  * * *

  “Where Preston ran and good old Paul rode.”

  Vickie sat frozen in her chair as Griffin Pryce read the words.

  The two men had declined to take seats; therefore, her parents had refused to sit again. They were like a pair of puppies, blindsided by a couple of whacks to the head.

  Not that Vickie felt any different. Or, perhaps, she did. She felt frozen.

  “This is wrong, just wrong,” Philip Preston said. “I mean, Preston is not an uncommon name. This clue may not refer to Vickie in any way. You’re asking my daughter to become involved with a killer. A killer who might target her. You can’t mean—”

  “Yes, Mr. Preston,” Jackson Crow said.

  Vickie’s father was not ready to give in. “Victoria was almost killed once. That man, that awful man—it’s him? Aldridge! Bertram Aldridge. She won’t be involved. I’ll get her out of the country, I’ll—”

  “Bertram Aldridge is sitting in prison,” Griffin said. “He will be there for life.”

  “This is someone who likes to taunt the police with notes,” Jackson Crow said. “Most probably, they simply remembered and took her name from the newspapers or media at the time.”

  “They can’t mean Vickie,” her mother murmured.

  “They mean Vickie,” Griffin added quietly.

  “Oh, no, no, no, no...” the ghost of Dylan Ballantine said, hands pressed to his temples. “My mom, they’re talking about my mom.”

  “I know you!” Vickie’s mother gasped suddenly. “You—you’re Officer Pryce. You were the cop who was there the day that...”

  “The day I was nearly killed, Mom,” Vickie said.

  “Yes, yes, you’ve been at our home before, and we’re grateful, but...no, not again. My husband is right. You’ll get Vickie targeted by this sick person,” Lucy replied.

  “She may help save a woman’s life. We don’t like bringing anyone into harm’s way, Mrs. Preston,” Griffin said. “But I’m afraid that whoever is responsible, they know about the attempt by Bertram Aldridge on Vickie’s life. The Ballantine house is near the Paul Revere house. And Vickie ran from that house.”

  “Look!” Philip Preston said angrily, “I won’t have it! I won’t have you use her.”

  “Dad!” she said, standing up suddenly. “Dad, please. I know you’re talking out of love for me. But I’m an adult. I can make my own choices. And if there’s anything I can do, I’m willing to do it.”

  “No!” her mother said, her face going as pale as ash.

  “Mom, Dad, it will be all right. These men are FBI. There are cops everywhere. I’m going to go with them and see if I can do anything.”

  “Then you’re going to Italy with us!” her father said firmly.

  “Dad, we’ll talk later. But time may be of the essence here. Please. I’m going to go with them,” Vickie said firmly. She rose and looked at Griffin and said, “Shall we? I mean, I will be with the two of you at all times, right?”

  “Absolutely,” Griffin said, looking at her. He had, she thought, the darkest eyes she had ever seen. Dark eyes, dark hair, bronzed, rugged face. For a moment, their gazes seemed to be locked. He didn’t like this, she knew. He wasn’t happy to be drawing her in.

  She realized that he and the other agent, Jackson Crow, were here because they were desperate to save a woman’s life.

  And she could help.

  “You’ll call me, you’ll call us, the minute... I mean, you’ll keep in touch, you’ll let us know where you are every step of the way,” her father said.

  “We’re wasting time,” Dylan’s ghost said urgently.

  “Hey, it’s going to be okay,” Vickie assured her parents. She looked from Griffin Pryce to Jackson Crow and said, “We need to go.”

  “Go where? Vickie—”

  “Where Preston ran and Paul rode,” Vickie said. “The corner where the Ballantine house is—down the street from the Paul Revere house. They have her there somewhere. If I see the site, I might know what the clue means.”

  * * *

  It had been some time since Griffin had seen Victoria Preston.

  Over eight years.

  He had never forgotten her.

  She had matured well.

  When he had first met her—terrified at the scene when he had shot and wounded Bertram Aldridge—she had still been a kid. At least basically. She’d already been about five-eight back then, willowy, with long black hair and tremendous green eyes and fine, slim features. She’d been a beautiful girl—but beautiful girls like her abounded, and he might have seen dozens like her at any sorority party or teen gathering.

  He’d immediately felt an affinity for her.

  And she’d needed to talk. Which was good, because there was paperwork. Lots of it. She’d explained about the door being slightly open, but Mr. and Mrs. Ballantine had been home. She’d made sure it was locked and the alarm on after they had gone.

  He hadn’t been a detective back then; he’d been on the force three years, gathering experience, and had already started the application process with the FBI.

  Detectives had taken over along with the FBI. Bertram Aldridge had gone back to being incarcerated with another trial in his future. He’d killed two guards during his escape.

  Griffin shouldn’t have had anything else to do with Victoria Preston. But he hadn’t been able to leave it alone. He’d had to check on her.

  Because he wouldn’t have been on time—he wouldn’t have saved her life—if Bertram Aldridge hadn’t gone down. His shot might have killed Bertram instead of wounding him, but Victoria Preston would have been shot as well if Bertram Aldridge’s shot hadn’t gone wild...

  He hadn’t liked to think about it back then. He didn’t like to think about it now.

  But he’d seen the kid who had been with Vickie.

  The ghost.

  Seen him, and then he’d been gone. Griffin never knew if Vickie had seen what he’d seen that day, if she hadn’t been saved to a far greater degree by a dead boy than she had been saved by his own actions.

  He’d never point-blank asked her if she’d seen the boy; he hadn’t been sure of what he’d seen himself, despite his own past.

&nbs
p; Now, of course, he knew. Yes, she saw the boy.

  And the boy was still with her.

  Chrissy Ballantine’s older son.

  Griffin was doing the driving; he was the Bostonian, who knew where he was going, which streets were open, which were closed, which only went in one direction. They could have easily walked. But under the circumstances, the car was quicker—and more official.

  And, thankfully, due to government tags, could be left anywhere, even in the narrow streets of Old Boston.

  He’d suggested that they head to the corner street of the Ballantine house. Naturally, police were still in the house. George Ballantine was there with his son, and crime scene techs and detectives were going over the house and the grounds and trying to ascertain how the kidnapper/killer got in—and how he or she got out.

  Jackson Crow was fast to get out of the car, but Vickie Preston was already out the back door. She stood for a moment, looking around. Griffin hurried around to her side, looking around as well.

  The Paul Revere house was just down the street. They were on the Freedom Trail. When Griffin had been growing up, he’d had lots of friends who lived in other areas and the suburbs who came here just to shop for their Italian sausages and cannoli.

  It was Old Boston. Centuries of history unfolded in a number of fairly centralized streets; giant skyscrapers stood among cemeteries where founding fathers had long lain at rest. Great Gothic houses of worship stood among the modern, built in defiance of restrictions long before the Constitution affording a separation of church and state had been penned. Boston was, in Griffin’s mind, a perfect example of the making of a country—and, in this particular area, there were treasures to be found.

  It was also a mammoth haystack. How to find a woman among the new and the old—and the many giant buildings that rested here and there between those crafted at a time when a skyscraper had yet to be imagined?

  “You think that she’s here—somewhere near the house?” Jackson asked Vickie.

  She stood looking up, thoughtful, distraught. Then she glanced Griffin’s way.

  “I’m a writer and researcher,” she murmured. “I don’t know much about the mind of a killer, I’m afraid. But...”

  “But what?” Griffin heard himself ask, a little too sharply.

  “Yeah, what, what?”

  The ghost of Dylan Ballantine was with them, anxious. Griffin hadn’t felt his presence in the car—Dylan must have come on foot. Or through the air—or however the dead managed to travel.

  None of them actually responded to the boy.

  Griffin glanced at Jackson.

  Apparently, none of them were going to acknowledge the fact that the others also saw Dylan.

  “The clue is, ‘Where Preston ran and old Paul rode.’ I mean, he might have ridden on any of the streets around here, and maybe it doesn’t mean anything. The reference to ‘Preston’ could also mean anything, but ‘where old Paul rode’ might suggest that she’s somewhere Paul Revere might have been.”

  Griffin looked around the street. He tried to judge the age of the buildings they saw. The apartments across from them had 1830 chiseled into the stone. They were near Boston Common, and they were near a few of the very old churches, and, of course, burial grounds.

  But he didn’t think they’d find her in a cemetery or vault. Their last victim had been found so. Maybe the killer thought that they’d start digging, with such a clue.

  “The Ballantine house,” Vickie said. “It was here before the Revolution.”

  “The Ballantine house is crawling with cops,” Jackson pointed out.

  “The basement?” Dylan said.

  “They haven’t found anything to explain how the killer might have spirited her out,” Jackson said to Griffin. “It’s easy enough for a determined criminal to watch people coming and going—and to notice they might have forgotten to lock a door or haven’t found time to lock it and set an alarm. No one saw or heard anything. It wouldn’t be surprising if a criminal had just slipped in and even out. But it’d be more surprising if someone came out carrying something the size of a woman, even if Chrissy Ballantine is a small woman.”

  Dylan was already running across the street.

  “Vickie?” Griffin asked.

  “They have a basement. Only part of it has been finished. The foundation is really big—so, as you can imagine, there’s a lot to the basement.”

  Griffin studied Vickie. He was pretty sure that she had something of a “gift.” Intuition, or something stronger that helped her. Like her ability to see the dead.

  A gift...that some people might consider a curse or a sickness! Whichever. At the moment, he had to think that they were working with a gift—one that could save lives.

  The three of them headed toward the house. Men in uniform stood outside, blocking entrance to it, but Griffin and Jackson quickly showed their credentials. They were allowed through.

  George Ballantine was seated on the couch in the grand parlor of the house; it was a large room, tastefully furnished with antiques. He had a cup of coffee in front of him that he hadn’t touched. When they entered, he was talking aloud, rambling, just to talk and try to figure out why this would have happened to him.

  “Chrissy is smart, she doesn’t just open the door. I mean, my God, we had a maniac in here once. She’s careful. ” He paused, breaking off in pain. “We lost my older son—we nearly lost Noah. And now Chrissy...”

  He broke off, staring across the room.

  “Vickie?”

  “Mr. Ballantine,” she said, hurrying forward.

  George stood, a distinguished man in his tailored suit, and reached out for Vickie. She hurried forward and he enveloped her in a trembling hug.

  “Mr. Ballantine, we think that Vickie can help,” Jackson said.

  George Ballantine looked at Jackson and then at Griffin.

  They’d met at the house, briefly, before heading over to pick up Vickie. George Ballantine hadn’t really seemed to recognize Griffin from the past, but then, they hadn’t had much interaction. The detectives and FBI agents on the case had dealt with the family. He’d looked at Griffin strangely, but hadn’t seemed to have grasped the connection.

  Vickie—he knew.

  “Vickie, dear, so good of you to come...it’s been so long. Noah... Noah is in his room. I’m trying to keep him from everything going on. Of course, I haven’t managed that at all. He’s nine now, still a kid, but... I’m going to have to explain. He just knows that his mom is missing. He had baseball today, Little League, you know? They called me because Chrissy wasn’t there to get him, and then I came home, and she wasn’t here, but she had a cup of tea out... Chrissy doesn’t leave things out like that. Her purse is here, her keys...it’s as if she’s vanished into the thin air. And that clue, Vickie, I mean, thank you. No one can know that ‘Preston’ means you, but...oh, God! I can’t believe this. My family, Chrissy, she’s amazing...you know Chrissy. Oh, God.”

  Vickie Preston drew gently away from him. “Mr. Ballantine, we need to search the basement.”

  “The basement? The cops have been down there—they’ve been everywhere,” he said.

  “Yes, Mr. Ballantine, but we need to look, please,” Griffin told him.

  The man still looked dazed. “Of course. Whatever. But shouldn’t you be out there looking for her?”

  “We’re working on it, Mr. Ballantine. Please,” Jackson said quietly.

  “What about the other woman—the other woman who was just saved? It’s all over the news—you just saved her. Can’t she tell you anything—tell you who did this? She could help, she could give us something!” George said.

  “We keep checking in,” Griffin assured him. “I’m afraid she’s still unconscious. We need your help, sir.”

  Ballantine nodded. “Sure.” He
frowned as he stared at Griffin. “I know you,” he said.

  “I used to be a Boston police officer,” Griffin said.

  “Yeah, yeah, you were here...” George Ballantine seemed confused, and then angry. “Are you the reason this madman took my Chrissy?”

  “I don’t believe so, sir. I haven’t worked here in years,” Griffin said.

  “Then what the hell are you doing here?” Mr. Ballantine demanded. Then he looked at Vickie as if it all might somehow be her fault. “Both of you...maybe it’s because of you.”

  Vickie was visibly shaken; Griffin fought his anger. The man was in no condition to be rational.

  “I’m with the FBI now, Mr. Ballantine,” Griffin said. “Excuse us. We’re hoping that something in the basement will help.”

  He turned; he didn’t know the Ballantine house, but Vickie did. She took his cue and walked away from Ballantine, heading to the kitchen.

  Vickie opened the door that led to the basement. Griffin and Jackson followed her down. It was evident the police and techs had been down there already. Shelves that lined the brick walls had been gone through; the door to a half bath stood open.

  One door led to the water heater and cooling system, another to other mechanics. The first room held a pool table and old comfortable chairs. There was a half bar that had been built to one side.

  Structural components blocked off various areas.

  They walked through the different rooms in the basement, between giant brick columns, leaving behind the finished section and moving into a raw work area. They all searched.

  Vickie stood in the middle of the floor, baffled.

  Dylan Ballantine appeared at her side.

  “Vickie, please, please, think!”

  She was thinking; that was painfully evident.

  “I’m not sure what else...where else. The clue seems so evident. Where Paul rode...this house would have stood then. I’m not sure what else...there’s the Paul Revere house down the street, but too many people are in and out. And the churches...there are so many tourists around.”

  “And we just found a woman in one of the cemeteries,” Jackson said quietly, encouraging her train of thought.